


Liquid Fire

by shadow_in_the_shade



Series: We Were All of Us On Fire [2]
Category: The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Mockingjay Spoilers, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 14:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3175776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_in_the_shade/pseuds/shadow_in_the_shade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Poisoned Paradise" Hayffie set during and around the movie version events of "Mockingjay". Takes up exactly where the last one left off, Effie wakes up and Haymitch is gone, headed to District Thirteen and she's in more trouble than she ever bargained for. </p><p>I haven't archive warning'd for major character death, but this does cover the details of Cinna's death. Also graphic depictions of torture in some chapters, I will tag individual chapters as I go along. Weirdly there is cute and romantic stuff in here too because I'm not good at genre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

1.

Shadow, and the glow of fire on her skin, red and black and the pale of the girl like marble. It was crystal and rubies, jet black and dancing flame, all those words she liked to roll out to sell a beauty he would never see. But he saw this, and he remembered. It was during that one day she had spent in the district. She had made him light the fire that went so often cold and dusty in the grate. He never lit it again after, did not want the warmth that reminded him of everything they could never have had.

She had been a mystery to him before then, but he had seen something that day that she could never cover up, no matter under how many layers and with how much paint and sparkle. He watched her closely every day he saw her after that, watching to see that girl again in her eyes.

He remembered now, in the cold of District Thirteen. Remembered the fire reflected in her eyes and the almost creepy perfection of her skin. She was like something from another world that day, more than she had ever been when she was just the girl from the Capitol. Even that distance was not as great as the strangeness that surrounded her that evening, as dark fell across the District and she came alive in the flame that rose out of the one fire that burned in the victor’s village. He remembered how he had reached to touch her skin, that seemed like snow magically never melting in the heat.

She must have been magical. He supposed he must have let her kneel over him, pressing his own knife to his throat as she did. He would never have let anyone do that. He could never have imagined it of her before. But she sank down on him in the warm silence and the intensity was too strong for screaming and he had died so quickly in the firelight in her eyes and he had never guessed so much of all she could contain within herself and so rarely let out. But after that day he never could see her as otherwise again, and he held on to this Effie, this creature so bright and so primal, so briefly glimpsed, but that once was enough to remember who she was forever.

She was so easy to hate. He took comfort in that in the days when she was never there and in the times when she was and to admit to anything else would have been abysmally dangerous. But those dangers were gone now and the worst having happened he would have been relieved if he had not been so damned worried.

-x-

He remembered:

She had not snuck up on him as Finnick had said of Annie; he wished he could have said that she had. Sneaking up on someone would have been the height of bad manners and instead she had just barged into his life like an obnoxious ray of sunshine he never thought he had wanted.

She had admitted to him later she had only been thirteen that day, and he had not thought there was much that could have made his wanting her from that very first meeting any worse. All those nights between then and the Games it had been her he had found himself thinking of and not the girl he had left behind, and he took the guilt of this to heart when that girl was gone and his heart had already left her.

But it had not been until that day she had come out to Twelve that he stopped telling himself it was only sex. Only lust. Only convenience. Hardly even friendship. He carried on with these affirmations to himself after that but it was harder, rang less true in his own mind, led him to take more refuge in drink even than before.

When he realised that he cared it chilled him to the bone with fear. It seemed like he had carried all the poison out of that arena. It was in his blood now and he was toxic, lethal to anyone he dared to care about. There were days he swore he would never touch her again, he was so caustic to everything around him, as though just by having feelings he could harm her. It was not as strange or unlikely as it sounded.

Then it started to become more and more apparent that she cared too. That she was not the cold hearted bitch he liked to convince himself she was. He had known it really, but that did not help; the persistent attempt to tell himself it was otherwise had been one of their major bones of contention every time they met for almost twenty years. That and the fact that the only times they even could meet were the times he most dreaded, bringing with them as they always did a re-opening of all the old scars and the widening of them with two new dead tributes to add to his conscience.

But with Katniss and Peeta, she had started to find it harder and harder even to pretend she did not care. More and more it had become clear to him that actually there was no-one else in her life that she could call family and that this, as the closest she could come to it, meant the world to her. He had not wanted this awareness when it came, neither did he want it to continue. But it did. By the time of the reaping for the seventy-fifth, it had become painfully apparent that she was not going to be able to keep up the front that she had for much longer at all and it terrified him to know that he would not be the only one noticing it.

The morning of the Games, when it came, seemed like the worst time he could pick to leave her alone in the Capitol. But he had not picked it. The entire operation had been so carefully arranged between himself and Plutarch, those already in the know in District Thirteen and the tributes involved in the games that it would have been impossible not to leave only on her account. Still he had made arrangements with Plutarch to bring her when he left himself and nobody could have predicted anyone would come for her as quickly as they did.

They came that same morning, at the same time they came for Cinna.

He had told Plutarch he would kill him himself if anything happened to her. He had also told him it was not personal. He had told him they needed Effie Trinket in Thirteen purely for practical reasons. That she was an ally. That she was indispensable, to them, to the Mockingjay, to the revolution.

Drying out in a corner of Thirteen, he paced the solitary cell they had left him in raging at the walls. He remembered her, the perfect pale creature rising up out of the flames. Remembered how soft, how pale, how alive she was. So strong, so filled with that fire, so exquisitely vicious, so perfect – that skin that had never known a bruise she had not begged him to put there.

If they hurt her, he fumed, if they did _anything_ to her, if they so much as made her break a nail he was going to kill them all.

__x__

**Quick note: I’m going as far as I can with a combination of what we got about Effie from the book, i.e. that she was captured by the Capitol and Haymitch and Plutarch had trouble getting her out and to thirteen, and also with the film in which she’s in 13 for the events of Mockingjay.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Some long babbly trigger warnings:**

**So I didn’t _want_ to write the whole Effie–gets–taken–and–tortured–by-the–Capitol thing because I feel yuck at the idea of Effie getting hurt. Unfortunately I think it probably happened so I _have_ written it, even though it hurts my heart. I’m also not going to wimp out and not make it graphically awful, even though I wanted to, because ugh, these things happen, for real, and it _is_ awful. So, warnings for badness, if you wanna skip this chapter please do, I’ll fill you in and understand. *hugs*.**

 

She did not wake well that morning. She never particularly did wake well, and indeed she would have been the first to admit that she was a nightmare to anyone who had the misfortune to try and speak to her before the first cup of coffee. But that morning was worse, because she woke to find the bed empty beside her.

It was not too strange, she reasoned, not inexplicable or even an unkindness. Haymitch would have gone to see them off to the games; perhaps escort Peeta while Cinna took Katniss. She checked the time – usually her first port of call in the morning anyway – it _was_ that sort of time. She yawned hard, rubbed her scrunching early morning forehead and got heavily out of bed. She was just getting a dressing gown on when the knock came at the door.

She did not answer it, of course; it was ridiculous for anyone to think of her answering when she was not yet dressed and didn’t even have her face on. But she had got no further than even beginning with her face when the door was kicked down and four Peacekeepers marched in.

“Well, I never!” There was no situation, no feeling, even genuine terror, that she could not hide behind outraged effrontery – “What is the meaning of this?” One of them ordered her harshly to come with them; that was all.

“No I will not!” she spoke instinctively, rashly perhaps – “Not until you –” she did not even have time to cry out, just felt a stinging crack across her head before everything went black and red and sort of warm.

-x-

She came around slowly and wondered if she had died. Nobody had ever hit her, let alone knocked her out in her life and she had no point of reference. Her vision swam, her head throbbed, she was in a small room she did not recognise, a cell perhaps. Everything was white.

“Effie?”

She was not alone, and that voice – that voice was comforting, though it sounded perplexed, appalled and as though the person were suffering. She blinked hard, sat up a little on the cold floor. She was appalled to realise that she was still only wearing her dressing gown, and not sure how many people had seen her. She peered across the room –

“Cinna?” she whispered and her eyes widened. She forgot what she was wearing – “Cinna, oh my god –”

Her eyes stung. She wanted to cry. Cinna was a mess. Dazzling, brilliant Cinna who only ever looked perfect. They had clearly taken him even less gently than they had her. Dried blood coated his face, one eye was puffed closed, an arm that looked broken hung across a chest that looked somehow horribly wrong. She knew nothing of anatomy but even she could suspect that he had a bone broken somewhere.

“It’s okay –” he winced as he said it but his voice was so warm if she hadn’t been able to see him she would have believed it – “It’s okay, don’t worry about me. What about you?”

“I’m –” she was not quite sure how she was. It seemed rude in the face of Cinna’s injuries to say that her head hurt – “I’m cold – I’m not –” she leaned in, whispered it as though he might not have noticed – “I’m not wearing very much”. She looked down, ashamed, bit her lip, made herself not tremble. It occurred to her for the first time that she might be stronger than she had thought she was. Cinna gave a cracked half smile;

“I can help with that, here –” he got unsteadily but certainly to his feet, reaching out a hand to her at the same time – “Help me with this –” he started shrugging his way out of his jacket. She moved quickly to help and awkwardly, slowly, determinedly, he helped her into it –

“It may be a little stained –” _blood stained –_ she had noticed, she could not believe he was apologising for this – “But it’s quite shock absorbent. Might be useful.” This was not as comforting to her as she knew he meant it to be. “Now –” he directed her to wrap the dressing gown around her waist, all the while maintaining the most gentlemanly decorum in not watching her while helping that she had ever been privileged to see. Within minutes, and in spite of his injuries, he had made it look like a real skirt. Nobody else could have made her feel so magically and effectively dressed.

“Cinna thank you,” she whispered – “You are amazing.”

He half smiled;

“Too amazing. I know why _I’m_ here – but you – we agreed not to tell you anything.”

“Nobody _did_ tell me anything,” she could not keep the exasperation from her voice – “Who’s _we?_ I don’t understand. Where are we? What did we do? Where’s –”

“Shh!” he cut her off quickly – “Don’t say anyone’s name. Don’t say anything to anyone. I’m gonna take a guess we’ve been taken in for what they call _questioning –”_ he said it with a curl of the lip that made it the most ominous thing she had heard yet. At least until they heard footsteps echoing down the corridor a few moments later.

“Listen –” he said, talking quickly – “This wasn’t supposed to happen so soon. Someone’s coming to get you out of here, it’s all been arranged. It won’t be long. Stay strong, okay, sweetheart?”

In spite of the comfort Cinna meant her she felt a stab so sharp she had to say –

“Don’t – don’t call me that – is he – I mean we -” for the first time she felt her eyes well up with tears.

“It’s okay,” Cinna said quickly – “It’s okay Effie. I know. I always knew. You’re neither of you as subtle as you think you are. Maybe that’s why you’re here, I guess. He’s safe, he didn’t mean for this to happen to you. They won’t get to him and –”

“But he knew it was a possibility?”

“It’s complicated. You’ll find it all out soon. Who do you think has arranged to get you out?”

She opened her mouth silently; there was so much she wanted to say, but all that came out after a long pause was –

“Cinna?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry I shouted at you – that time Katniss shot at Seneca. I didn’t mean to snap.”

He smiled that time and almost laughed.

“You shouted at everyone. It’s really alright.”

“Cinna –”

 But then the Peacekeepers came in and herded them out of the cell at gunpoint. Effie swallowed hard, told herself sternly not to faint, could hear her own voice tell her _there is always room for manners,_ felt Cinna’s hand take hers, squeeze tightly, took the strength offered and raised her chin as high as it would go as she walked out steadily.

They were taken to a larger room where they were pushed down roughly onto their knees; Effie just to Cinna’s left. He let go of her hand gently. There were more Peacekeepers in here and one man who looked as though he was in charge. They were looking at the two of them and talking, though she could not hear what was being said. One of them nodded sharply in Cinna’s direction. She turned to him, eyes clear and unafraid, lying just as his eyes lied to her- for strength, to help, to reassure.

“It was the dress, wasn’t it?” she said quietly.

“Pretty much,” he nodded.

“It was beautiful,” she whispered, smiling softly, and he smiled back. He knew. She was glad he knew.

A Peacekeeper walked over to the right of Cinna, and shot him in the head.

It happened so quickly Effie was still gasping on an intake of breath, jumping at the noise when his blood hit the side of her face and back of her neck. It was warm, wet, sticky- _dreadful_ , like bugs crawling across the skin. She felt him fall forward and did not turn her head, never lowered her gaze from the Peacekeeper staring down at her, seemingly waiting for her to scream.

She did not scream. She resolved that she would not at any point do anything so indecorous as to start screaming. Her heart beat furiously between wondering if they were going to shoot her too, and simply sobbing internally for Cinna. No, she would not have them see her scream- or cry. She held her head as high as it would go, made herself a stone, exquisite in Cinna’s very last design. Fire burned hot behind her eyes in lieu of tears.

She kept her resolution for longer than anyone who knew her ever could have imagined she would.

__x__

 

**So yeah, this went in a different direction than I quite meant it too. It’s gonna keep going that way for a bit as well I think, though fear not it will get better one we get to District Thirteen, but I’m thinking the next chapter or two could still be pretty grim. Sorry. :-) I love Effie and I’m crying over Cinna right now.**

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**All trigger warnings from previous chapter apply, with added torture.**

The first thing they tried was a “ _we’re very sorry about this, most regrettable, sure we can all be reasonable and sorry we killed your friend”_ routine that did not fool her for a minute into either any sense of false security or speaking too soon. But she pretended that it did because it seemed like the wisest thing to do. She wondered how strong she could be, how defiant she could remain whilst still staying safe, whilst still remaining _polite._ She wondered how far simple manners could go towards keeping her alive and still maintained half an idea that being pleasant, even to these people, would make them be pleasant back.

But to the questions they asked there was nothing she could say – _Who’s behind the revolution? How far has it progressed? What is the state of District Thirteen? What is your involvement with the rebels?_ She could say nothing to the first two questions, only frowned bewildered by the third, but coloured up at the fourth, which was where, she realised afterwards, she had probably incriminated herself.

Her interrogators simply nodded, took her back to her cell, left her there and turned out all the lights. She didn’t like it. She wanted to call out. She did not call out. Alone in the dark, where nobody could see, she wriggled into a corner and finally let herself cry for Cinna. When they brought water- she thought it was hours later- she used as much as she could spare to wash the blood off her face and neck.

She had no idea how much time had passed and that alone almost drove her crazy, alone in the dark with nothing to do but wonder what the hell was going on outside, where the people she cared about were, how they were; if it was true, as Cinna had said, that anyone was going to come for her. She wondered if everyone had just been laughing at her suggestion that they were ever a team, wondered if they had just all been too kind to point out that she had never faced the dangers that they had, wondered if they had any reason to care about her as much as she did about them. She veered very close to self-pity for a while in wondering if they really would come for her at all. Then she remembered that Peeta and Katniss were even now in all likelihood fighting for their lives alongside everyone Haymitch had ever been able to consider a friend and she scolded herself for being so weak.

Not knowing how much time was passing was eating at her. She hated waiting; hated changes of plan, hated not knowing what was going to happen next even at the best of times. When a light finally came on again it was blindingly bright and when a figure came through the door the first thing she did was open her mouth to ask how much time had passed, minutes, hours, a day, she could not tell. She got no further than –

“How long –” before a fist she could barely see for the brightness hit her in the face. Her eyes leaked in immediate and uncontrollable tears but she refused to make a sound and the questions began again, this time fired out as shots in between each blow that came when she failed or refused to answer. And there _were_ some answers she could have made- guesses if nothing else, people she could have incriminated. It barely even crossed her mind as an option. The rounds of questions and punches seemed to go on for hours. Her head reeled and she was screaming inside, wailing from deep in the gut; from never having been hit in her life to _this_. She did not mean to antagonise them but at one awful point she started to laugh and the world was crazy, spinning round and round as though she had been spun too fast and thrown to the floor. She did not remember falling, but she was on the floor when a kick got her in the ribs and she heard a crack that sounded as though it came from far away. Then she fainted, for the second time that day, and it was wonderful, delicious to be able to leave.

_I have to stop doing this,_ she thought when she resurfaced and was alone again and everything was dark. She had been proud of never having fainted in her life and now this was twice in one day. Everything hurt. She had no idea how long she had been out. It was so quiet. She wanted to cry like before, but this time she couldn’t. She tried but nothing came out. It alarmed her more than if she had started sobbing. She was scared to move, couldn’t think straight; couldn’t really think at all. There only seemed to be one thing she could do and so she did it and fell asleep, tugging Cinna’s coat tighter around her.

Before she fell asleep, and it came with sweet relieving ease, one thought did surface and it was _Haymitch, I’m sorry – I really have been terribly useless to you._

But she had not, she realised it when she woke up, said anything. She knew she had not. She remembered well enough, though a part of her wished she did not. Nothing felt better and the throbbing in her head was worse, if partially similar, than the worst hangover of her life. She still did not know how much time had passed and it was hurting her head and her insides almost more than the pain in her chest.

That day – if it was a different day – they started with the electric shocks. At some point- she could not have said when- she started to go away, her mind working out with a sigh of relief how to leave its place and travel. It took her back in time to the night after the reaping for the Third Quarter Quell.

_“How do I keep going?” she said. They were on the train, Katniss and Peeta had gone off to their rooms and she could finally let out all the little animals that were clawing at her insides – “How am I supposed to go on with this?”_

_“Damn, I seem to have a lot of people asking me this right now” Haymitch was slumped heavily into a chair; she was perched nearby, almost but not quite sitting on the table. Only a year ago she supposed she would have shouted at anyone who did that – “Why does everyone think I’m the expert?”_

_“Haymitch, contrary to the picture of utter uselessness you like to exude and much as I hate to admit it, you seem to have a talent for this.”_

_“For what?”_

_“Surviving,” she said it slowly, enunciating clearly – “There’s a reason you’re a mentor, you know.”_

_“Brilliant.”_

_“Haymitch –” her lip quivered. She bit it down, not before he had noticed and though he did not move something softened in his eyes – “I had to read out Your Name – I – I –I thought I was going to – I don’t know –”_

_“Fail? Sweetheart, failure’s not your style.”_

_“I feel like I did this,” she went on miserably – “Like if it had been you – or if they – if they – don’t make it through the games –”_

_“Hey –” he frowned, held out his arms to her – “Come here. You can’t blame yourself for this.”_

_“Can’t I?”_

_“No. That’s ridiculous. And if I may say, extremely big headed of you –” she slapped him gently. She had not wanted to do this; end up a useless pile in his arms, but they were warm and solid, and so comforting and she could hear his heart beat and that was all so unbelievably good right now._

_“Sure –” he said – “There was a time when you were all the evils of the Capitol in human form to me. But that was dumb. I never thought I’d say this but you have to seem that bad again. You have to keep on acting like the Games are the best thing you’ve ever been a part of. Think you can do that sweetheart?”_

_“No” she sniffed – “How do I –”_

_“Fake it” he said – “Act. Come on princess I know you, you’re good at fake –”_

_“Excuse me!”_

_“I meant it – er – nicely – you pretend, and you keep on pretending until it feels real and in the meantime kiss me.”_

_“Finally,” she sighed – “Something I want to do. You know you smell nicer when you’re sober.”_

_“Thanks for the reminder,” he groaned._

Fake it. She remembered that when she came round from passing out again. She stayed still, figured she could buy time if she pretended to still be out. Buy time was all it did. This time when they took her back to her cell she could hear them talking, saying she was useless, that she really didn’t know anything, they were going to have one more go and then kill her the day after. She still had not screamed for them once.

That night chopped horribly between pitch black and blindingly bright. In the bright times somebody stood in the doorway, perfectly still, staring at her until she wanted to scream. In the dark she did not know if she was being stared at or not and her skin prickled and jumped disgustingly. At times she heard voices around her, talking about all the things they could be doing to her. She stayed still as stone, barely there.

In what might have been the next day she finally screamed when they burned her, trails of fire dripping and eating between her shoulder blades, screaming pain down her thighs. She did not regard this as a failure anymore, and she could hear that voice again in her head _Sweetheart, failure’s not your style._ She felt rough, comforting arms around her in place of the searing pain and, if she had not been a lady, would have spat at the people behind it. As it was, she smiled her defiance so bitterly they almost looked afraid and she heard her brain laugh and wondered if this was what going mad felt like.

When they returned her to her cell this time, she was surprised to find that she felt bored. Bored of pain, bored of hurting, beyond scared or hurt or anything else she felt herself seething with boredom.

The next time they came she found herself not caring, wishing for many things she suspected she could not have; medical attention, for example, assurances as to the safety of the people she cared about. But for herself she did not care. Still she noticed they were taking a different route than before, saw her Peacekeepers talking to a different group of Peacekeepers, saw them nod and followed placidly as she was led outside.

Actual daylight was incredible, unbelievable almost. She blinked at it in astonishment but did not ask what was happening until they led her on to the hovercraft. As it lifted she saw the group of Peacekeepers they had left behind running back out, heard them yelling very faintly, pointing up at them as they moved away.

“What’s going on?” she asked. As they started to take their armour off, she realised they all looked nothing like Peacekeepers – “Who are you? Where are you taking me?”

“We’re sorry for the delay,” one of them said – “We had orders to take you to District Thirteen”.

_District Thirteen –_ she had heard those words so repeatedly in interrogation – _what do you know about District Thirteen -_ that she felt she never wanted to hear them again, least of all go to the godforsaken place.

“Why?” she said – “What’s in Thirteen?”

“Here –” one of them handed her a paper – “The order for your transportation”. She couldn’t take it in; it was signed by a President Coin, whoever that was, and dated for the day the Games began. The words swam at her as she peered at it, head hurting, grasping for something that would make this make sense. She found it in the counter-signatures on the bottom of the form –

_Plutarch Heavensbee & Haymitch Abernathy._

__x__

**If you got through this I love you hug you and promise you porn in the next few chapters. :-) K?**

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

The first chance Haymitch got to talk to Plutarch, it was probably a good thing for the latter that they were over the phone. It was a secure line Thirteen had set up, one that stood little chance of being intercepted.

“What if she doesn’t?” Haymitch asked – “You can’t be certain. What if she just doesn’t?”

“We thought of that. Johanna will do it if she doesn’t and we’ll make damn sure to make it look like Katniss. Either way, we’ll get that force field taken out and then –”

“I’ll be there. I’ll get you and we’ll be there for the others. As planned. And –” he tried to make it sound as casual as possible – “Effie and Cinna?”

“Ye-es –” he could almost hear Plutarch pulling a face over the phone – “About that –”

“Plutarch!”

“There’s a been a – slight – hiccup –”

“A _slight – hiccup?”_ Haymitch echoed it in tones of absolute acid.

“Look, you know we were all ready to move in for them this afternoon, it’s just –”

“It’s just _what?”_

“It seems that Snow moved faster than we thought. We think they must have come this morning. You know we weren’t prepared for them to come so soon, we thought – they’d be safe for the day at least –”

“Plutarch –” Haymitch’s voice teetered on a deadly edge between calm and lethal. “What –” he got the words out through gritted teeth, “ - are you trying to tell me?”

“They’ve been taken, Haymitch. We don’t know where they are, we’re working on it right now and if they’re still alive –”

“If they’re still _alive?”_ Haymitch roared. “If they’re still _fucking_ alive? How could you have let this happen – what the –”

Plutarch held the phone away from his ear beneath the volley of expletives. He remembered Haymitch’s original instructions in this matter; his reasoning why they would need Effie Trinket in District Thirteen. _Valuable asset to the revolution my ass_ he thought, and if there was not so much potential worry, he would have smiled.

**-x-**

It was two days before he got the chance to speak to Plutarch again, and by that time they were on a hovercraft waiting just outside the arena.

“There’s bad news,” Plutarch said. He suddenly wanted to hide from the look Haymitch shot him; like he was going to _actually_ kill him. Haymitch could feel his heart shrivelling up as though it were being burned to a crisp – _and I had not thought there was much left to shrivel_ – he thought, and but for Effie there might not have been. He had spent the last two days in Thirteen in an agony of worry and recrimination. _Twenty years or more,_ he thought – _spent not telling her for fear the connection would kill her. Now this._ He had raged at the walls in silence, pacing his room; biting the head off anyone who came near to the point where Coin had ordered him sent down for rehab the instant he and Plutarch returned with the Mockingjay. Even this irritation had washed gently beneath the tide of despair that was threatening to overwhelm him, a circular rush of – _Effie I’m so sorry, gonna kill Plutarch, kill anyone who’s done anything to you, Effie I’m so sorry,_ Self-recrimination cycling rapidly between swearing vengeance in his heart on anyone else who might be to blame and then – if she was dead – it brought him up cold every time, sick, in the most desperate need for a drink he had ever been. And now, Plutarch saying this. It sounded like all those nightmares come true. And then –

“It’s Cinna,” Plutarch said – “Cinna’s dead.”

There was a wonderful, horrible moment, the seed of which would sprout occasional bouts of self- loathing for a very long time – in which his insides leapt for relief. He tried to react to this appropriately and with due sorrow – and he _was_ distressed by this, but –

“And Effie?” was all he asked.

“She’s alive,” Plutarch gave him a moment to process this – “We’ve found her, I ordered a team to go in for her just a moment before you arrived. There’s a second craft that should be following us out of here in minutes.”

“Jesus –” he sat down heavily, pulling a hand raggedly through his hair – “Is she – she hurt?”

“She was sent to interrogation. Three days of questioning – we don’t know for sure. Sources say they’d just about given up on her. If we’d come a day later…”

He flailed and stopped. Haymitch was looking at him so intently, so frighteningly _politely._

“Wait.” Haymitch frowned. “Given up on her? Why?”

This time Plutarch _could_ smile.

“Haymitch, she didn’t tell them a thing. Not a single thing – even when they knew there was anything she could have told.”

There was a small part of Haymitch that was angry with Plutarch for caring more about this than he seemed to care for Effie, but a larger part of him sang out in joy and pride and he could not stop his brain from leaping in and crying _that’s my girl!_

He wished there were a subtler way to ask when he could see her, but in spite of all his quickest thinking all that came out was;

“When can I see her?” Plutarch winced and braced himself for the next attack.

“When you get out of rehab.”

“What? No. I’m waiting for her. You said they’ll just be minutes behind us.”

“Haymitch you heard Coin – you have to go down _as soon_ as we get back. I’ll wait for her.”

“Why, you little –”

This time it took two of Plutarch’s assistants to hold Haymitch back, and when at last they did get back to Thirteen it took still more of them to drag him physically off to rehab. He had been gone only minutes, barely time for Plutarch to compose himself, when the second hovercraft got in and he was relieved as much for himself and his own safety to see Effie walking out of it- painfully, but in one piece.

“Miss Trinket,” he walked towards her benignly, relieved that this at least would be easier than dealing with Haymitch. “We’re so pleased to have you, and we’re sorry about the delay in –” he stopped dead at the look Effie was giving him.

“You’re sorry –” she said, extremely sweetly, looking at him far too brightly, and _oh god_ he thought _he we go again –_ “about – the delay?”

He was just beginning to nod when she let out the most ladylike grunt he had ever heard and her delicate, uncertain fist connected with his face. In only a second she had put her other hand to her mouth and was whispering –

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry –” whilst shaking out her hand which hurt almost, but not quite, as much as his face.

“Medical –” Plutarch groaned towards her escorts, clutching his nose – “Take her to medical.”

It was, he thought wretchedly, shaping up to be one hell of a day. Now all that remained was to tell Katniss they could not go back for Peeta.

__x__

**Okay that went a bit comedy, kinda thought it had to after all the badness.**

**On a side note, if anyone’s interested, you can follow me on tumblr, I’m _shadowintheshade._ It’s a mish-mash of my fandoms and sometimes self-involved personal babbling but more and more Hayffie seems to be creeping in there at the moment so do check me out, I love followers (I was gonna say I love to be followed but that sounds creepy!) So come, follow me, I’m ace. :-)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Trigger warnings for brief reference to injury detail/ torture with potential post – traumatic stress. But it is really brief this time. :-) Also for withdrawal symptoms an solitary confinement.**

 

**5.**

 

Everything was white and grey and almost unbearably sterile. They lingered moodily in their separate cells and each remembered a time when the world had been in colour.

It was worse for Effie, the grey - at least she was sure it had to be. She had lived all her life in the center of a rainbow; glowing in a riot of colour, safely floating in her own shimmering bubble. But the bubble had burst and she was falling down to earth hard.

Her greatest pleasure lay in tormenting Plutarch. She had removed herself from the medical bay as soon as she could- it was too deeply and in every way distasteful. She had let them fix her rib, patch her up and see to her hand and then proceeded to make herself so disagreeable they had been forced to give in to her insistence upon leaving far sooner than was recommended. It was only partially the disdain for the place and all the people in it she told Plutarch that it was. Mostly she was ashamed to be seen like this. There was nothing here, nothing that she knew, that she could hold on to; her face was only her own and she felt almost unbearably exposed to be seen that way, and that was before she even started on what they had made her wear.

Worse than this was the truth she did not want to express aloud to anyone here; that she was still scared. It was hard enough to sleep here anyway, without the drugs she had always relied on and that had become so fashionable in the Capitol that people forgot it was possible to sleep without them. But then every time she closed her eyes for too long she began to prickle with the idea that somebody was staring at her. Of everything that had happened, to her this was the thing that lingered, that stopped her sleeping at night. But she remembered the rest too, and bits of her still hurt enough to remind her to be afraid of everyone, mistrustful in a way she had never needed to be before. She had been, she reflected, as ridiculously trusting as a kitten- and now she realised she was watching people as narrow-eyed and suspicious as a cat. She did not like looking at people that way, edging away from them as though they would hurt her. It was her own reaction she hated more than even fearing them and so she shuttered herself away in her room, persisted on referring to it as her cell, all the better to avoid feeling the way that made her so uneasy.

Her greatest source of solace, she found, was in tormenting Plutarch. He came to see her repeatedly, every time trying to persuade her – gently because his face still remembered – to come out into the world of the District. They fell finally into a pattern where he knew she only half meant the abuse she gave him, and she only half still resented him for not having come for her sooner.

She might have resented Haymitch just as much, had she not found more of her things than she had imagined she would find in her room ready for her when she arrived. She remembered the number of times he had given her grief for always travelling with a bag of “Emergency accessory supplies,” but was both relieved to find it here and touched that he had thought to pick it up on a morning when he must have had so much else to think about- for she was not as wholly insensitive to the revolution as she liked to pretend to be. She wondered if he knew he had offered the greatest comfort she could have found in the simple ability to paint her nails and work on putting together enough accessories to stop her from blending in completely to this sea of grey and washed out people.

After the first day in the hospital where she had screamed at railed at Plutarch – even after he had dared to come back to her – she had not asked for Haymitch. Pride and shame at that day’s behaviour held her back. Every day she meant to, every day she opened her mouth to say it, and every day she did not, just another thing to keep her awake. The comforting, familiar voice of who she used to be told her it would be fine, that everything was sure to be for the best. She heard that voice with some surprise, surprised that girl was still inside her, but she heard herself and made herself smile, trusted herself -even if she was ugly now- as she had never done before.

-x-

Haymitch did _not_ hold back from asking after Effie every time Plutarch dared to come near. Every time he was not actively raging or shaking at least. This drying out process was more taxing than he had ever imagined it would be, every day just reminding him why he had never got far in trying this before. Too many hours spent shaking and shivering, feeling like his head and chest were going to explode, and nobody having any of the sympathy they would have had if this was the actual fever that it felt like.

He was glad he had controlled himself enough to speak halfway civilly to Plutarch, however, when the first attempt yielded such wonderful results. He had tried not to ask after Effie the very first minute he appeared, but it had come out without his being able to help it.

“She’ll – be fine –” Plutarch wheezed, face still aching, still wondering if his nose was broken – “She –”

“What?”

“She – punched me in the face.”

“She _what?”_

“You heard”. He _had_ heard, but it was so good he had wanted to hear it again.

“ _She_ punched you?” Haymitch grinned from ear to ear.

“Yes, yes –” Plutarch groaned – “Everyone’s very pleased I got punched, can we –” but they could not move on, not as quickly as Plutarch would have liked;

“That’s _brilliant!”_ Haymitch announced, and did not stop laughing for ten minutes solid.

-x-

They had been forced to put him in solitary as soon as he had got down there, but they had not been forced to keep him locked in until he kept attempting to break out. The first time it had been to sneak up to the medical bay and take a look at Effie’s patient notes. He knew it was wrong, but Plutarch would not tell him anything and he knew he was making it sound better than it was to stop him from getting mad. Well, he supposed, between the stress he and Effie were both giving him – and Plutarch kept him updated enough on the latest ill treatment she was giving him – he could hardly blame him.

What he read made him feel so ill, despite all the technicality of language, that they had little difficulty in taking him back, drained and shaking more from what he had read than he was usually shaking these days. She had been treated for a broken rib, third degree burns, serious bruising, head trauma and somebody had written _shock/ PTSD?_ in the margin though she had refused any psychological treatment. She had also, he noticed, severely sprained her wrist punching Plutarch but he could not be so angry about that. He did not want to imagine how these injuries had been caused, what she must have felt; he could not stop imagining. He could guess at it all far too well, and tortured himself with it night and day until his eyes were leaking and his dreams were nightmares, no longer even the usual kind, but nightmares in which he woke up screaming from the interrogation table.

It was no more than a couple of weeks of waiting but it felt like a lifetime. Even after the shakes subsided he found himself tearing at the walls in frustration to be let out. He lost track of which reactions were come down and what was just the natural result of being stuck on his own for days on end. He never heard anything with more relief than the news that Katniss had agreed to be the Mockingjay.

“Coin had to tell her individuals couldn’t make demands down here – ” Plutarch said – “To be honest it was mostly that she’d had enough of that from you.”

Haymitch almost smirked, imagining how Katniss would have taken that;

“Bet that went down well. Ask for Peeta and the other Victors, did she?”

“We’re working on it.”

“Damn straight. And Katniss?”

“We’re gonna start her on propos in the next two days, just need to get her ready for camera.”

Haymitch snorted –

“Who gets that joyous task?”

“We were –” Plutarch swallowed hard – “We were going to ask Effie – only –”

“Only what?”

“She’s very stubborn. I’d go so far as to say difficult. Every time I go in there she acts like I’m her jailor. Quite frankly, it’s a task to make her come out at all let alone –”

“Tell her – ” Haymitch smiled, picturing Plutarch’s difficulties, at the same time as pondering how strange and awful this whole place must seem to Effie. He suspected, as Plutarch did not, that there was more than simple disdain behind her awkwardness – “Tell her she’s dispensable. Tell her anyone could do it. Trust me. Nothing will make her move faster.”

“Swear to god,” Plutarch groaned – “I’m just glad we’re starting work between the two of you running me ragged. I swear I’m gonna –”

“Yeah we’re naughty kids,” Haymitch grinned at Plutarch belligerently – “What you gonna do – lock us up?”

“Actually the opposite,” Plutarch sighed. “Come on, we’re getting you out of here.”

 -x-

He saw her before she saw him. In fact he had been watching her before he joined them properly for longer than anyone realised.

She was different; he had been prepared for that even if it still hurt. What he had not been prepared for was how much of her had stayed the same. He was not even sure he could still have been so unchanged after everything they could put a person through. Certainly there was a tiredness to her that had not been there before; her gestures were smaller and more closed in on themselves, she kept her arms close to her chest the way he had always noticed her do when she was nervous or upset and she was paler down here than she was before, like a flower that could not find room to grow when kept underground.

But, she was here, and she was connected. Despite that new depth and the sadness in her eyes- and it killed him to see and tormented him with wondering if he could ever change her back- he could see her watching Katniss and caring as much, if not more now that she did not have to hide it than she had ever done before.

But beyond all of this, he could not help but see how beautiful she was. It was obvious now, surely, he thought, for everyone to see. Uncomfortable as she looked in the dull grey uniform of the district she shone to him with a radiance everyone else, _especially_ – he thought despairingly, Katniss – was lacking. There was so much he wanted to say to her and so much that he could not, not here and now. And perhaps, he thought, it was best this way, just for now, for though telling her he liked her better without the make-up was not the romantic reconciliation anyone could have envisioned it told her succinctly how little between them had changed and to hear her fire back quickly that she _liked him better sober_ warmed his heart at the same time as tickling him with that sweet and familiar irritation she was so good at eking out of him.

They kept their smiles to themselves, though he could feel how her eyes never left him. As soon as they could they would say all those things that were so simmering to be said but they could do it now on a platform of familiarity easily re-established on a quick exchange of words. It was easier, she breathed out deeply to herself, so much easier this way than running at each other and weeping, which was nobody’s style, and frankly distasteful.

He glanced at her again, whenever the chance arose, and saw now that behind the dark that had settled in her eyes was the fire he had glimpsed there just that one time before. It was a fire that burned constantly now, illuminating her from the inside until all he could see was that strange beautiful creature crackling in the arch of the fireplace.

_Girl on fire –_ he thought, glancing quickly at Katniss – _aren’t we all?_

__x__

**Yaaaay they’re together again! Finally the next chapter can get fruity!! – It’s been far too long! :-)**

 


	6. Chapter 6

 6.

 

Every time either of them caught the other person looking, they would look away themselves and pretend to be fascinated with something else. And they _did_ spend the whole day semi-surreptitiously watching each other, both of them thinking they were being completely subtle and both of them fooling no-one.

When they did get five minutes alone, it was literally that; five minutes in which they found themselves awkwardly to one side of the room whilst other people moved around them. Effie chewed her lip and Haymitch scratched his head and they both tried manfully to ignore each other or the fact that they were side by side within maddening touching distance.

In truth the whole day had been maddening, frustrating; positively itchy, Effie would have said. There was so much to say, so much hanging between them that now, in the awkwardness all that came out was –

“So you’re – heading out to Eight with them?”

Effie started as though she had only just realised Haymitch was there. She turned to face him but couldn’t quite meet his eye –

“Me? Oh no – I’m just – I’m just going to see Katniss out to the hovercraft and make sure they’re – you know – dressed appropriately.”

Her eyes darted away again quickly and Haymitch scowled; he had seen her do this throughout the day – as though she feared her actions and opinions meant little to any of them here and that she probably should not speak. It was not like her, and it pained him to see it. He put a hand on her shoulder and she finally looked up at him, eyes wide and full of an uncertainty he wished he could take away more easily.

“It’s not unimportant, sweetheart –” he said it more gently than he knew he could speak and his fingers brushed her neck without quite meaning to. She shivered at the touch, but it was a good, electric shiver and just for a moment her face turned against his hand – “We need you down here –” he went on, swallowing and uncomfortable as a teenage boy – “ _I –”_ he was going to say _need you,_ they both heard it loud and clear, but just at that moment someone called over to Effie that she was needed upstairs. She smiled tensely.

“See?” he grinned at her reassuringly. “They need you more than they do me – you okay? You’re shivering.”

She was. And ashamed at anyone noticing, she lied, or half lied –

“It’s cold down here –” and since it _was_ and it was not _entirely_ just that she was nervous and wanted to say so much she was able to go on – “This is not _exactly_ the Capitol – they really need to moderate the temperature better down here.”

He smiled; demonstrations of solidity, however transparent they were, had never been something he had been any good at himself, he had always admired it in her, even while he had mocked her for being fake.

“Here –” he shrugged his jacket off and put it on her before she could object. He would have denied that he lingered in the touch, or gently stroked her shoulders as he did it, just as she would have denied that she nestled into the jacket as though it were a hug. It was too big for her, and he smiled;

“I reckon by the end of the day you’ll have made even that look fabulous.”

“I’m not _that_ good –” she tilted her nose up a little archly – “What _is_ this even? It’s more like a hideous cardigan - and it smells bad.” He rolled his eyes at her –

“It’s good to see you haven’t changed,” he retorted just as archly and she smiled then, grateful that he had said it, even if they did both know it was not quite true.

His smile quivered first, and he kissed her on the forehead before she went away, quickly, whilst nobody was looking and even she was pretending to look away.

-x-

When she arrived back in her room late that afternoon he was sat at her small table, fingering a flouncy gold brooch she was working on creating.

“You’d look silly with it,” she pronounced smartly, shrugging out of his jacket. “Here. Bad enough what they make us wear down here without this as –” she frowned suddenly and swerved suddenly off tack – “I mean – thank you,” she added softly, graciously.

“Remember those manners did you, sweetheart?” he grinned.

“It’s not easy in a place like this” she shrugged.

“Effie –” he stood up, took her arm lightly, blinked when she looked at him as though startled once again. “I meant it, you know –” it was not quite what he had been going to say but there it was – “You do look better.” It was not enough, either, to express quite how beautiful she was, how she reminded him, in this place, of what she had when he had first seen her – a sunbeam in a place that never saw the light.

“Don’t –” she said peevishly, trying to turn her face away. He wouldn’t let her. “Don’t be silly. I look hideous.”

“No, you –” he started to say it as wearily as he ever had when she had been moaning that some new style or colour did not suit her but he suddenly pulled up short – “Oh. Oh, you really mean that.” This time he let her look down, but only for a moment –

“I –” she whispered – “I’m so ashamed.”

“Effie –” he said her name again, for it was a relief to do so out loud after crying it in his head for so long alone – “Effie, no. Sweetheart, you have _nothing_ to be ashamed of. Plutarch tells me you’ve not come out until today. Is that why?”

She bit her lip, heard all the lies she had told Plutarch come so easily from her lips and could not say a word of them, just nodded.

“No.” He shook his head – “You can’t do that. This self-imposed isolation’s good for no-one.”

“Well I hardly think you’re in a position to talk,” she could not help but say, knowing that had been essentially his life back in District Twelve.

“I am. I did it. That’s how I know. Effie –” she was trying to go off topic – “Effie you’re _beautiful –”_

“No –” she insisted – “I –”

“Also stubborn,” he added with a sigh, and then kissed her, hoping it would tell her better than words and at least would be something she could not object to. She did not; she was soft and almost boneless in his arms. It did not take long for him to want her; he could feel her through the grey, the real shape of her, more than had ever been possible in the madness she used to wear.

“You’re impossible,” she smiled into his neck as his hands explored her, trying to find a way in. “You can’t possibly tell me you find this hideous attire arousing?”

“It’s not the attire sweetheart – in fact I have no problems with you losing it entirely.”

Her first move was to take it off but her hands faltered in mid gesture –

“I – you might not – I mean – don’t be –” she stammered. He took her hands and sat her down gently on the edge of the narrow bed, shook his head at her tenderly and pulled her out of her clothes with a reassuring gentleness he never remembered having in him before. he had to swallow back a reaction of shock and sadness he had convinced himself he would not feel and however hard he pushed it back, she must have seen something because her eyes swam and she blinked furiously –

“I _told_ you – I’m horrible –” she swallowed hard and he pushed her back gently, spreading her out before him and stroking her as gently and reverently as he had ever done when she had been perfect and unscarred.

“No –” it was easy to deny because angry as he was it was by no means that she looked horrible – “No sweetheart, you’re beautiful – I –” his fingers ghosted her bruises, fading now, and the scars that were turning silvery like lightning streaking her skin. “I just want to kill some people.” She nodded; that was more alright. He kissed her slowly, covering each scar, each bruise as though trying to rub it off, make it not have happened, and she sighed and wriggled happily as though it really did work; it felt like it did. When he looked at her face she was smiling sweetly like he remembered she could smile and always had in such unguarded moments. It was the smile, more than anything, and the arms which reached for him so instinctively that made him need her desperately. He slouched hurriedly out of his clothes, wanting to get through it as quickly as possible, and she laughed with gentle teasing at his hurry and the need for her that was more than flattering, reassuring her as nothing else could that she really was not as hideous as she felt.

But she heard him draw back a curse when he parted her thighs, felt dampness from his eyes upon the burns there, kiss her injuries so gently that it began to irritate her –

“Haymitch –” it was half a sigh, half a snap – “I am _not_ about to fall apart. Stop touching me like you’ll break me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, but it was not in response to her words, she could hear that – “I’m so sorry –”

“Did you do it?”

“No but I –”

“Then stop being sorry. It’s not your fault –” this time it was her turn to say “Oh –” as he looked away from her quickly, not wanting to meet her eye – “You think it _is_?” His silence was affirmation enough.

“Well, you absolute –” she struggled for the word – “ _Idiot –”_ she shook her head – “Imbecile.” She added, for emphasis, “Shut up and fuck me.”

It was not a command he could ever disobey, and he kissed her deeply as he sank into her – too gently – she broke the kiss to make a little _ahem_ sound of irritation. It was so like her usual voice again that he slapped her – gently, but it was a start, and she hissed in pleasure and dug her nails into his shoulder and it was enough; he slammed into her hard, needing and with all the force of too long apart. She screamed in a luxury of screaming at how incredible it felt, wrapping her legs around his back and drawing him in, setting the pace herself and pulling him into her harder yet.

She was everywhere, he felt, he was drowning in her. He realised what a mistake it had been to be so gentle; no point treating her like something broken when all she had done these last few days was to prove how difficult it was to break her. He pounded her into the bed which creaked and objected at the force of it, and she bit and scratched and came within minutes, shivering, and shaking him into following her, crying out and shuddering so much of all that had troubled him out as he filled her and filled her until she unwound her trembling legs from around him and lay limp and blissful beneath him, her body singing and golden with delight.

“I’m sorry,” he said again as they wriggled awkwardly into a comfortable position in the too small bed, he on his back with her so close against his chest she almost had to lie on top of him to fit. It was a different sort of sorry from the ones before, but she still rolled her eyes tolerantly –

“What for _now_?”

“I didn’t know how strong you were – I’m sorry for that.”

“I’m glad I found it out,” she frowned at herself, but it was true, she was, even if she had had to go through all of that to get there. She smiled up at him suddenly and brightly –

“I punched Plutarch,” she said proudly.

“I heard,” he grinned.

“I never punched anyone before. It hurt.”

“I can show you how to punch harder – if you want to do it again.”

“That is not –” she was going to say something about manners but was shocked to hear her brain whisper a gentle, dismissive _fuck it –_ “Alright,” she grinned back.

__x__

**I really am struggling to work out how to define Haymitch’s jacket/ cardigan thing that he wears in Mockingjay….also I do think Effie appears to be wearing it in a later scene but I may be wrong as we’re in the sad space between cinema and DVD and I can’t check to see. :-)**


	7. Chapter 7

**7.**

 

“I don’t like it,” she said the next morning. “It’s not natural. Not being able to see the sun. Or the sky. I don’t like it.”

“I guess I didn’t really think about it. Seems a small price to pay, considering.”

“Small? There’s no _air._ Sometimes I could go crazy – I wish I was back –  ” she stopped, sighing. She didn’t really wish she was back in the Capitol. After the last few days there she wasn’t even sure she ever wanted to see it again. She didn’t want to be in any of the Districts. In truth, she realised, and she only said it out loud because it was only Haymitch and she sighed as she did, leaning her forehead against the cool metal of a bedpost;

“I don’t know where I should be anymore.”

“Hey –” he touched her arm lightly, pulled her in to a hug, more comforting than she was expecting.

“But it’s a good thing –” she sighed, feeling like she was taking strength from his heart beat – “What we’re doing – isn’t it?”

“It’s a good thing,” he echoed, affirming – “Yeah.”

“I just – I like _high_ places. Views. The wind. _You_ remember.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. He remembered; he would have had to be more of a drunken idiot than was humanly possible to forget.

-x-

It was some years into her time as escort, two nights before the 70th annual hunger games.

“Come on,” she said, hauling Haymitch out of the chair from which he’d fallen into in a drunken slump. She was surprisingly forceful, surprisingly strong; he assumed she ran purely on determination and stubbornness. “You need some air.”

“There’s no air here –” he grumbled – “If there is, it comes too heavily taxed for a peasant like me, what are you gonna do, take me back to District Twelve for the night?”

“I had something more practical in mind,” she replied primly. “Come on, don’t be tedious.”

“M’ not tedious,” he slurred sullenly.

“Oh yes you are, and you know it. Here.” She thrust a glass of water into his hand. He threw it over his shoulder and looked at her with all the childish challenge of a school boy. She thrust the second glass she had already prepared into his hand. He glared at it as though wondering how the water had jumped magically back into the glass and sighed.

“Damn it woman, do you never give up?”

“Never,” she widened her eyes at him, watching like a teacher, arms folded, tapping her foot – “Drink up!”

He groaned and grudgingly drank it.

“Now!” she announced, and this time he followed her when she dragged him. She took a key – he didn’t know where from - and unlocked a door behind the bar in the dining area – he had always vaguely wondered where it went.

“Come, come!” she beckoned, leading him up a narrow flight of stairs and he followed, hating her, puzzled.

She opened a second door, and the stairs opened out onto the roof of the building. He blinked several times. Not just a roof – a garden, slightly overgrown but amazingly green, curious flowers snaking out across the paving like a jungle.

“Is this even real?” he squinted, unwillingly fascinated. He rubbed a leaf between his fingers. It crumbled.

“Not everything in The Capitol is entirely fake,” she answered, smiling. She had that look he could never quite hate, that shyly proud, lightly secretive look as though she had made all of this and it was only by her gracious benevolence that he got to see it.

“Is it safe?” he frowned. Just for a moment he saw a look of pure and not even patronising sympathy nestle in her face; _not everything means you harm,_ she wanted to say – _not all beautiful things are poisoned._ She had been woken by enough of his nightmares to know he still had a residual fear of beautiful surroundings. She wondered, for the first time, if that was why he tried so hard and so effectively to defile any space he inhabited. She forced the sympathy away quickly; she knew he would hate it and smiled again, the way she was good at –

“Yes,” she said simply – “Yes it’s safe, follow me –” she led him, not quite but almost by the hand, through the little jungle atop the skyscraper. Large leaves brushed their faces and everything smelled green and earthy. He was mesmerised by her up here, could not look away.

“There –” she led him to the edge and looked down on all the shining lights of The Capitol dazzling up from below, a riot of crackling colour reflected in her eyes – “Not everything here is ugly.”

He was still just looking at her, the lights in her eyes and the moonlight rippling on her skin, silver and the shadowy green of the leaves around them. He was not sure he remembered ever seeing moonlight in the Capitol before; down below the glare and rush of colour and noise blocked it out.

“I knew that.”  He turned away to say it, though she saw him almost colour at the sentiment and slapped him lightly as though he had insulted her. But her heart sang and her smile pulled.

“I come up here quite often,” she admitted, leaning fearlessly on the low wall with both arms. “Whenever we’re here. When I can’t sleep or -  when I’m sad. When I have to get my thoughts together. Nobody else comes here anymore. Well, the other Districts all have their apartments below us so only we have access to it. That’s why it’s all a little overgrown. It’s so high up I – I feel safe where I’m high up, like I’m apart from it all, I don’t know – _better_ I suppose. Like I’m flying. Like I’ve flown off to some strange place not Capitol or District – _my_ place. Like a secret –” she blushed suddenly, looked down at her hands as though she should not have said so much, as though she had revealed too much and, her exposed secret heart would just look silly on display. But he just watched her, half smiling, placed his hand on hers on the wall;

“Silly of me,” she muttered, apologetically.

“No,” he shook his head – “I didn’t know –” he was not sure what he was going to say because all the options were somewhat damning. He looked away, looked up –

“Look –” he placed a hand gently on the back of her neck, guided her eyes upwards – “You spend all that time looking down. You could get the same view here we get in the Districts.”

She looked up; it was clear up here and up above the stars were out, a display almost as overwhelming as the one below. It had never occurred to her before that there was any way they could get the same view in all those months apart. She blinked at the sky and in those seconds the stars blinked with her. In another story she would have said – _I’ll never look downwards again_ but it wasn’t that story and so, however true it was she did not say it. Instead she shivered in delight to feel his breath on her neck as he murmured –

“So nobody ever comes up here?”

“No.”

“And nobody can see us?”

She twisted her head round a little, getting an idea of where this was going –

“Haymitch Abernathy, you cannot be suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

“Hmm. How many times have I heard that?”

“Too many!”

“And how many times have you been wrong?”

She wanted to groan, but he was stroking her arm, one hand trying to seek a way up her skirt and the groan that came out was not the exasperation she had intended.

“Honestly –” but her words came out in a breathy gasp – “I show you something special and all you want is –”

“Something special” he finished for her; “You want me to stop you know the word, sweetheart.”

She did, they had agreed on it years ago when she realised he never ever wanted to genuinely hurt or upset her and realised too that some kinks just sent his mind straight back into The Games and that was simply _not_ asexy place.

But right here and now, there was no way in the world she wanted to say it and why else, she thought, if she was being completely honest with herself, had she brought him up here in the first place? She replied by twisting an arm around to palm his cock through his pants. He made a slightly strangled sound in his throat and bent to kiss her neck, his arm circling her waist, travelling up to pull her dress down at the neck. It didn’t help –

“Fucking corsets –” he grumbled.

“Ugh –” she huffed – “This one has front fastening eyelets for ease of access, _if_ you don’t mind.”

“So glad you were thinking of me.” He cracked her out of the steel and satin like opening a nut, his other hand finding her wet and warm between her legs and a lack of underwear that never ceased to amuse him considering the corsetry. Her thighs shivered as he slipped a finger inside her and she felt the cool of the wind on her naked skin. She opened her mouth to object, unsure if she had ever felt quite so exposed. He teased her nipple between his fingers;

“Didn’t you say nobody can see?” he answered her unspoken objection – “Besides, your breasts are worth showing off to the whole Capitol.”

“Honestly –” she gulped, arching her neck back, feeling him unbuckle behind her, pushing her hands down hard on the wall for support – “What kind of – girl – do you think – I am?”

He chuckled and it was electric on her neck –

“You don’t want me to answer that,” and he pushed into her firmly from behind. She gripped the wall until her knuckles went white and the sky around them swallowed her cries and he held her firmly around the waist with one hand, and squeezed a breast in the other.

“Look around –” he whispered in her ear as he thrust into her and she looked – at the lights below and the stars above, and they, caught in this magical space in the middle just for once, with the leaves rustling in the wind  and the smell of the soil in a place of plastic. She could feel the lights, the stars, as if they shone out from her own skin, sparkling inside her skull, saw her breath on the air as she gasped.

“What would they all say if they could see you now?” he whispered and it tore her to pieces on the breeze, the cool of the air and the warm of him and the beauty and then this vivid image suddenly striking in her head of the picture they must make. His fingers found her clit as her mind held onto the image and she was screaming out ecstasy at the stars and it seemed her screams must fly across the city and sneak in through every window.

He followed her in the screaming and caught her as her legs gave out, holding her against him so she did not even scrape the wall on the way down.

He held her, warming her against the cold she did not feel now anyway and whispered _thank you_ into her cheek, for want of being able to say what he really wished to say. And she said nothing, only smiled, for her heart was full of stars and her eyes dusty with shimmering lights.

-x-

“Yeah” he swallowed, thickly – “I remember”. It occurred to him now, that all of the things that had held him back from sentiment, all those excuses that were real reasons after all – none of them existed down here. The only thing holding him back now were his own fears and hers; but they were enough for now, and in spite of all he could have said all that came out was –

“So –” he grinned and squeezed her arm somewhat affectionately – “That safe word - still _Mahogany?_ ”

__x__

**I now have the song “Stars” in my head which I think, under the circumstances, is probably abusive to Les Mis. Heigh ho.**

**And as if the safe word could have been anything else!! :-)**


	8. Chapter 8

**8.**

 

When the bombs started to fall on District Thirteen, it was all he could do not to run around the place frantically shouting her name. Instead, he found himself having to make sure everyone else was safe. He wondered when this happened; when he stopped considering the rest of the world the priority it should have been and become prepared to put one person before all rational concerns. He remembered shouting at Katniss when she had made her priorities clear, placing her family before everything. _Who takes care of them?_ he had asked, executing a gesture designed to take in everyone around them, the people fighting and dying in District Eleven. He remembered the resolve he had made to himself then, even if he had not formulated it in specific words in his head; that he at least would be there to take care of the nameless masses.

He had not understood her then. He had counted himself clever, if not lucky, to have no specific person to care about. After all, he had tried so hard not to become attached and if he could have taken no other pleasure in any success he had ever made, he at least considered himself fortunate in having been able to stick to that resolution.

But he understood Katniss now. He wished to hell he didn’t. He wondered if it made him petty. He could not enormously care.

In the end, all he could do was hope to god that Effie had the sense he was starting to realise she had. He determined to look for her as soon as everyone was ensconced in the relative safety of the shelter, but it was a longer process that anyone had anticipated and he was one of the ones instructed to go down the rows of frightened people taking inventory of them all and checking that nobody had been left behind. Even with a few of them assigned to the job it was still a painstaking task.

He was only half way through it when a voice behind him said his name. He turned around briskly –

“Not now, sweet –” he began, thinking it was Katniss,“- Effie” he finished. _Thank god._ He almost said it in the breath of utter relief that he let out. Instead he just nodded several times rapidly and clasped her arm in a clumsy pat. She gave back a smile that was faint, shaken, but otherwise unafraid, and he grabbed her and crushed her in a fierce hug he had had no intention of letting out; but fuck it, bombs were coming down and nobody was paying attention anyway. Everyone, he noticed, looking around, when it came down to it, only cared about their own people. Still he let her go quickly;

“I have to –” he gestured the inventory sheet. She took it off him, scanned it briefly, and nodded –

“Good,” she said. “You take aisles ten to twenty, I’ll take twenty to thirty. I’ll meet you back here after. This bunk here.” She tapped it, slightly gingerly as if in fear it might stain her, but smiled up at him bright and business-like.

“You really don’t have to –”

“Oh shush –” she admonished sharply, and he could not help but smile to hear the old Effie so completely, down here in the pits of District Thirteen. He could almost see the eyeliner swirl out across her face, her lips darken in a shade she did not have, some lurid shade of pink wash through all that grey just at the sweet upturned lilt in her voice – “Really - between the two of us, who _really_ knows how to organise their way through an event?”

“Sweetheart, it’s a bomb scare, not a tea dance.”

She slapped him with the sheets of paper still in her hand.

“You take your side, I’ll take mine,” she insisted smartly, positively springing her way down the aisle and leaving him no choice but to do as he was told.

 He puzzled, as he did the rounds, at how this had all turned out; how he had started to care for her, long before he ever admitted it, had finally come to the point where he knew he wanted to protect her almost as an instinct and then, it seemed so shortly after making this resolution he had failed completely. And now, when he was there for her, when he could _(and would,_ a small voice whispered) have offered his life to save her, she appeared in no need of saving. There was a small part of him that was disappointed but mostly it just reminded him why he cared about ( _loved)_ her in the first place.

But then he wondered if she needed him at all and the whole cycle started again as he found himself agonising like a teenage boy. It was ridiculous. He tried to stop himself- he didn’t _need_ her to need him, but then the idea slipped in that she might not even care. He could almost see her glaring at him at the very suggestion. He had internalised her, then. Great.

He was thinking the whole cycle through for the umpteenth time by the time he got back to the bunk and found her already there, saw her smile when she saw him and shift over so that he could get in. The confusion was lost in a flood of curious warmth at seeing that smile. It was weird; people didn’t _smile_ to see _him._ He heard that strange whisper that came to him now and then – that dream of a normal life, having someone to come home to. He shook his head and she must have seen him frown –

“What is it?”

He shook his head again to try and dispel the dream but it seemed to be sticking more tenaciously than usual –

“Nothing,” he grunted. “Any problems your side?”

“Everyone appears to be counted for. Yours?”

“Katniss was late.”

“Is she alright?”

How quickly she sprang to concern, he noticed, how deeply she seemed to care. Why had it taken him so long to see it?

“She’s fine. She went back for her sister. Obviously.”

“Is _Prim_ alright?”

“Yeah,” he sighed in what felt like a very familiar weariness at the antics of the Everdeens  - “ _She_ went back for that stupid cat.” He shook his head. “I swear.”

“ _Haymitch –”_ she smiled as she chastised, rolling her eyes at him – “People take care of their own. Whatever else they say they do, that’s –” she shrugged, she knew she wasn’t saying it very well, but the lesson was new to her too. “That’s just what people do. That’s what really matters.”

“I don’t get it.” He leant back, finding a semi– comfortable angle against a bunk post, and she shook her head at him, insinuating herself almost casually between his legs with her shoulders against his chest.

“Yes –” she nodded when he thoughtlessly encircled her with his arms, rested his chin on the top of her head – “Yes, you do.”

There was not much he could say to that, with the feeling of all of her, small and curled up within his arms; nothing to say but kiss the top of her head and nod to himself at the curious, unlike him but undeniable thought – _this is where my heart has come to rest then._

When he did speak a few minutes later, it was only to say –

“You know, almost half of this section have gathered over that way to play with the stupid cat.”

“That’s nice.” She snuggled in closer.

“I’m just saying if you wanted to join –”

“Not even remotely –” she yawned – “Comfortable.”

“I’m  - _so_ glad I make a good head rest.”

“Yes,” he could almost feel her smile. “Carry on.”

“You’re not scared?”

“No –” she frowned – “I should be, shouldn’t I?” but he was stroking her arm almost idly and it felt nice. “But I’m not.”

He smiled to himself; _my Effie,_ he thought. And in the midst of so many nervous huddled people, everyone focussed on themselves and their own, nobody noticed another two people snuggling close, almost glowing with it, a little flame against the dark.

__x__


	9. Chapter 9

 

**Some trigger warnings in this chapter for flashbacks to past torture and references to rape.**

9.

“Oh for god’s sake! Will you two stop? You sound like an old married couple!”

Plutarch was trying to talk sensibly to Cressida, but the constant bickering in the background was throwing him off too completely to concentrate. Effie felt herself beginning to blush furiously like some sort of schoolgirl, and Haymitch muttered and looked down at his feet.

“Honestly, how old are you?”

“Twenty nine,” Effie replied, far too promptly. Haymitch said nothing and Plutarch rolled his eyes and tried to carry on.

“My ass you’re twenty nine,” Haymitch whispered in the background.

“ _Rude_!” Effie squeaked back in a whisper. “You don’t question a lady’s age!”

“My ass you’re a lady.”

“Oh for goodness sake! Plutarch’s right – you’re a _child!”_ she hissed.

“No sweetheart, _I’m_ an adult and not pissing about claiming to have been the same age for the last ten years.”

“I’m twenty nine and you can check my birth certificate”.

“Oddly, I have better things to do than look at your forged documents. Wasn’t that one of your Capitol fashions a few years back? Paying a lot of money to change your official date of birth?”

Effie huffed in indignation, saying nothing because it was true. She pouted silently in what were a few wonderful moments for Plutarch, before he heard the muttering start up again –

“So you’re saying I look old, is that it?”

“I was saying no such thing, princess.”

“But you think I look old?”

“Oh, dear god!” Plutarch yelled, turning round. “I’ve half a mind to ditch this propo entirely and just film the two of you – actually,” he stroked his chin thoughtfully- _threateningly_ Haymitch thought – “That wouldn’t be such a bad idea – a beautiful romance between the Victor and the Escort, symbolising a harmonious union between District and Capitol –”

Haymitch made an _ugh_ sound and Effie a withering “ _please,”_ almost simultaneously, glared at each other and then looked back to Plutarch in a way that did little to help their case.

“You have to admit, it’s not without merit,” Plutarch continued to needle them.

“Great. While we’re at it, why not have the victor rape the escort to symbolise the success of the revolution and the overthrow of the Capitol?”

“I don’t think that’s quite the sort of thing –” Cressida began, at the same time as Effie made a strange little sound and stomped out the room.

“See now you’ve really annoyed her,” Plutarch sighed. He took Effie’s departure as simple effrontery and irritation, but Haymitch’s heart sank with the awful weight of suspicion and a concern that he’d really overstepped the line this time. He mumbled something to Plutarch and headed quickly out of the room.

Effie hadn’t gone far. She was only a little way down the corridor, as though hoping to be caught up. He ran after her, caught her arm gently. She looked up at him, eyes wide, slightly challenging, lips squished into a pout, raised chin wobbling ever so slightly;

“I fucked up, didn’t I?” he wished he was capable of just saying sorry. He hoped this would do instead.

“No” she said, stubbornly – “No – it was just – vulgar of you, that’s all. Nothing I wouldn’t have expected –”

“ _Effie –_ ” she looked down when she heard the disbelief in his voice, the refusal to accept the lie she was so bad at. “I know you – remember? When you’re offended with my vulgarity you tell me so loudly-and I swear- positively happily. What happened, sweetheart – or at least –” he amended, anger seeping in hard and black all over again – “Tell me who I have to kill.”

“No, it’s –” she sighed, blinked rapidly as though to block out whatever she was seeing in her head. He knew the look, the gesture; he’d done it enough times when the memories crept in that he would sooner keep away. She spoke quietly, ducked around a corner into a quieter corridor and sat down on a bench in the wall. He sat beside her, hand still uselessly or comfortingly on her arm, he was not quite sure which. “Nothing happened –” he watched her, too wary to allow himself to be relieved so easily – “But they threatened. A lot. On the last day especially – when they gave me the burns, they said they’d – they’d –” he could see her struggle for the most delicate way to put it. “They said they were going to put it in me, burn me on the inside, and I could hear them all talk about the things they were going to do to me. It was disgusting – then, when I was alone, sometimes I would hear them just outside, going on the same way. I thought at any minute they’d come in and – well –” she shrugged, her voice going high. “They didn’t. It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. I just – I try to forget. Ignore it. But just then I remembered and –” her lip quivered. He watched her bite it hard;

“And it was like you were right back there?” she nodded, staring down at her hands. “I know,” he finished for her.

“I know,” she repeated – “I said it didn’t matter. It seems selfish to complain –”

“Selfish?” he echoed her in disbelief.

“Well yes, after what you and Katniss – all of them – and with Peeta still – and we don’t even know _what_ they’re putting him through – I – I want to help, not hold any of you back.”

“Effie –” he said, taking both her hands, looking at her steadily. “You won’t. Believe me – I think of what they did – I think of _anyone_ doing anything to you, the last thing I feel is an urge to hold back. You don’t have to always be so god-damned brave. Not for me.”

She made a noise that, had she been less lady like, would have been a snort –

“I don’t do it for _you.”_

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I do it for me.”

He smiled and stroked the side of her face gently.

“And this is why I love you.”

This time she let him just hug her, but only for a moment before she drew away and looked up at him, grinning –

“Wait – you said –”

He ground his teeth; he had not meant to say anything of the sort. He had been sort of hoping she would let it slip by un-noticed. He should have known better.

“Shut up Effie,” he groaned, though he did not stop stroking circles in her back – “Just for once, okay sweetheart?”

But her grin sparkled brighter until it was positively evil, and he knew he was done for; she wouldn’t let this go, not ever.

__x__

**Haymitch said the thing! I didn’t mean him to, not just yet, but he did. He doesn’t listen to me! :-)**


	10. Chapter 10

**10.**

 

“Haymitch no,” she said. She should get a sign, she thought; it felt like she said those words about a hundred times a day and for as many reasons. This time it was, “I have a wedding to plan.”

“You _what?”_ he looked at her suddenly, in abject terror.

“Oh yes,” she smiled brightly. “Plutarch thinks a wedding would be just the thing to inspire the District, and so –”

“God. And you were going to tell me this _when?”_

She smiled at him for a moment far too sweetly before relenting –

“Not _ours_ –” she shook her head, laughing gently – “ _Honestly._ You and Katniss are as bad as each other, both convinced everyone wants to see you get married. And who would you be marrying, pray tell?” She grinned up at him, eyes flashing, until he turned and looked away before she caught him blushing.

“Finnick and Annie, _obviously”_ she clarified, turning back to the pile of white she was attempting to work with – “It’s a nightmare. I have the whole thing to plan, a dress to make, people to arrange, I’m going to absolutely –”

“Love it,” he finished for her, with a groan. This time it was her turn to blush;

“Well. Maybe a little.”

-x-

When the wedding came, Effie spent most of it stood to one side; doing her utmost best to make sure the bride got all the attention whilst beaming to herself proudly all the while. At one point she _may_ have just started to utter a little sniff when Haymitch rolled his eyes beside her and sighed.

“You cry at weddings. I might have guessed.”

“I am _not_ crying!” she hissed back – “I – have something in my eye.”

“That makes you sniff.”

“Shut up, Haymitch.”

“What kind of wedding is this anyway?” he moaned later, as people milled about amidst the fairy lights, smiling and congratulating in what was entirely the nicest way Effie had seen since coming to the District. For herself, she was sat primly on a chair, arms clasped a little smugly in her lap as she surveyed the prettiness of the hall that had, after all, been almost entirely her own doing. Haymitch could not help but smile to see her, with so many shimmering gold accessories that one could hardly tell she was wearing the usual grey underneath at all. He _was_ rather impressed with her efforts, though he was not about to say so.

“Seriously. Where’s the drink?”

“You –” she leaned across the table at him – “Are common, uncouth and ill mannered.”

“And yet.” He shrugged, looked down at her hands on the table and mumbled, “You – wanna dance?”

“With you?” she made it sound desperately scathing, whilst grinning from ear to ear.

“No, with President Snow! Yes with me, my ill-mannered, uncouth self.”

“Of course,” she stood up, almost bouncing, taking his hand in hers. He was half tempted to kiss it and prove that he could be gentlemanly after all. He squeezed it tenderly instead.

It felt strange, they both felt it; to be able to do this in public, even though it was just dancing, gentle and almost shy. She rested her head on his shoulder and he curled his fingers around hers and it felt almost ridiculously daring, given the habit of so many years of not doing the slightest thing within view of anyone that could have been construed as them being together. It was strange and not entirely possible to really know – that the danger was no longer there, that they were in fact something – whatever it was – that people could notice and it would not kill them.

_All that concern,_ he thought – _and it did nearly kill her. I will not let it happen again_. He swore it to himself firmly as he – still half surreptitiously – kissed the top of her head. _Where are we going?_ he wondered – _how can this end?_ It seemed odd to be thinking about something that should be so petty with a revolution breaking out around them. But it was this, this petty concern that set his insides to shivering in fear, clenching in a need to know. It had always been easy to ignore the future – easy enough through a decent haze of drunkenness. But he no longer had that excuse, that cushioning to fall back upon, and the floor, when it hit, was hard and shocking. It took the breath from the lungs and the fight from the heart. It was so much of what he had been trying to avoid for so long that it shook him now. Nobody would ever imagine, he thought, what the real fights look like. That a battle can rage silently inside a couple on a dance floor fiercer than anything out there in all the warring districts.

Effie knew. She had always known. She suspected right now she might know through his silence exactly what was going through his mind and she was right. She understood it because her fights had always been undertaken like this, in silence and in the gentle, apparently congenial bustle of a crowd. The battles that counted were not just picked out by the sound of crashing metal and exploding buildings, they were found amidst the chink of glass and the light birdsong of meaningless chatter. She nuzzled in and tried to say in silence, _I know, I understand, I have lived with this always._ She hoped that he knew that she knew and she hoped that she knew what she did correctly.

-x-

Not until much later that night did either of them speak of the battles they had fought while the wedding swished and shivered around them, and when they did it was clear no victor had been announced from thee challenge.

“Where do we go now?” she said, because she knew that he would not – “What happens after?”

“After what?”

“After the revolution. When it all goes back to normal. What do we end up as?”

“You’re assuming it _will_ go back to normal. Whatever that means.”

“We won’t be down here forever. Something will happen next and when it does –”

“When it does, whatever it is will decide a lot of what we can’t, I guess.”

“That’s your answer? What happens just happens?”

“Yeah, why not?”

She shook her head –

“That’s not for me. I want to know. I want to choose.”

“Sweetheart, the future’s not a victory tour, you can’t just schedule it in and hope it all goes to plan.”

She almost but not quite snorted –

“Even the victory tour did not go to plan. It’s not like that at all. We _can_ decide where we lay our – affections. Loyalties, if you prefer.” She blushed and though he did not see he could feel her face grow warm in the dark.

“I’m not going to live in the Capitol, if that’s what you mean.”

This was all she had really wanted to hear –

“There. You see. You _have_ chosen.” She snuggled in smugly, secure in this now.

“I don’t think I –”

“Haymitch –” she smiled – “Shh”.

She had heard all she needed to, and she would keep it. If he thought their future location was what was up for debate, he had chosen more than he would tell her in words – he had considered her a certainty and not a thing up for question and for now, that was more than enough.

__x__

**There’s only one or two chapters of this one to go now I think! After that it’s part three: domestic bliss and fluff section! :-)**


	11. Chapter 11

 

She thought she might at least have changed more through all of this – might have reached a point where nothing shocked her any more. She was not sure if she was glad or disappointed to be proven wrong. She felt like she had been made of china before all this started; fancy, beautiful and useless. But she had not turned into the stone she had thought she might, at least at first, when she arrived in District Thirteen. She remembered how she had felt then – _they have done all they can to break me, and they cannot._ Even though everything had hurt it had been a wonderful realisation.

But she was not indestructible. She had always known she could never stop caring. That was what it all came down to, wasn’t it? The people you cared about. She had learned it from Katniss first. Learning it from Haymitch had come second and been harder; she had seen it in his passionate endeavour _not_ to attach, to keep everyone at a good enough distance that he could not cut himself on his feelings for them.

He could not save himself the pain he had sought to save himself any more than Katniss could save herself pain by trying to keep the people she loved safe. Nobody could stop caring, Effie saw it now – and nobody could _be_ as completely responsible for another person’s safety as they wanted to be.

She had cried for Prim. But she had cried for Katniss harder. She had thought the girl was surrounded by the safety of having someone care for her _that much._ But when it all came crashing down, it shattered everyone’s assumptions. It turned out everyone had had some belief that the world had some respect after all – everyone except Haymitch perhaps. It had terrified her too because she realised she had always thought the intensity of her own feelings might count for something in keeping a person safe and, clearly, it did not.

She had not been able to believe it at first – not _really_ believe it. When it sunk in her first thought had been _oh god – Katniss._ But there was nothing she could do in this, no help she could offer; sympathy was abhorrent and Katniss was a million miles away from wanting to talk about it. She had argued with Haymitch twice over whether or not she should even try and talk with her. In the end the only assistance she had offered Katniss was entirely related to make – up and wardrobe. She had spoken to her only professionally and was relieved when Katniss had offered her a heartfelt _thank you_ that told her she had done the right thing.

She had thought she was strong enough to get through events without squabbling like a child, but Haymitch made it impossible. He made _everything_ impossible. He was getting to have this _face_ where she just knew that whatever he was about to tell would end in screaming. He came back to her with it after one particular meeting with President Coin and the others and she closed her eyes and moaned –

“What?” before he had finished walking through the door. Her eyes had widened and she had felt an urge to panic when he told her about the proposed final Hunger Games, but she thought about it sensibly and replied –

“But of course you all voted against it.”

He had looked guilty as hell then.

“It’s not that simple, sweetheart.”

“What do you mean it’s not that simple? Of course it’s that – oh my god – you don’t mean you –”

“Not all of us no, it was fifty/ fifty right up until the final vote –”

“Oh god,” she said again – “It’s happening isn’t it? Well go on, what imbecile got the final vote?”

He stared at his feet like a boy for the most excruciating length of time and did not look up at her when he groaned quietly –

“I did.”

She had never been so furious. She did not even _enjoy_ screaming at him this time. She was in tears and out of breath by the time she broke off and he sighed –

“Effie for god’s sake, let me explain –”

“Explain?” She echoed incredulous – “Explain? This better be _bloody_ good.”

“I was supporting Katniss –”

“ _Katniss_ voted in favour?”

“She’s planning something,” he nodded – “I’m certain of it. And whatever it is, I’ll be damned if I screw it up for her.”

“And if she isn’t?”

“She is.”

That short exchange dogged them for the next few days, Effie not being able to let it drop, Haymitch replying in increasingly weary and less certain affirmatives that he was _certain, one hundred percent certain, completely certain_ that Katniss had something planned. Eventually she had asked it one more time and Haymitch had groaned all the way up from his feet and sighed –

“If she isn’t, I will kill you for plaguing me and you won’t have to worry about a thing. Alright, sweetheart?”

-x-

Then Katniss shot Coin, and it was as though someone had hit a fast forward button and she could not keep up with the events going on around her and apparently indifferent to her. She had just caught up enough to come to the conclusion that what Katniss did was a good thing when Haymitch came to tell her she was being sent back to District Twelve and himself with her.

“But I have to stay here,” she said dully; it was really a question, she was hoping he would do what he usually did and argue. But it came out as a statement and he did not tell her he was hoping for something else.

-x-

As they stood on the platform for the train to take them back to Twelve, Haymitch looked around him, scowling thunderously. He could not believe Effie was not there to say – well, _something_ – he had not even been hoping for anything as depressing as goodbye. They had not even discussed it, he had been so assuming she would just be there.

At the last possible minute they got on the train, and his heart clenched like a fist, hard and tight. He wondered if Katniss had been expecting the same, she kept looking at him with such concern, frowning as though something was wrong. Something _else,_ he supposed; everything felt wrong.

They sat in silence, staring down at the carpet as the train pulled away. He wished to God it was one of the old trains; the ridiculously opulent Capitol trains with their beautiful bar cars. It _was_ one of the old trains, but they had been gutted and made simpler in the days since the rebellion and he wished he was not as sorry about it as he was.

Every few seconds one or the other of them would open their mouth to say something and close it again. How could they express all that was lost? How could you even try to offer sympathy in the face of everything that had gone wrong?

“Well!” A voice intruded on the misery – “I do hope you two aren’t going to sit there feeling sorry for yourselves all the way home. Don’t you think the journey’s long enough?”

They both looked up, startled;

“Effie!” Katniss cried, breaking into the first hint of a smile anyone had seen in a while.

“The damned hell are you doing here?” Haymitch hid his smile behind Katniss’s. Because it was like seeing a ghost; it was Effie as they had known her, beautiful, parrot coloured and ridiculous, smiling with her hands on her hips. It was an act, of course, Haymitch could see it straight away, but he knew that Katniss would not and the fist in his heart unclenched in a  flood of warmth and respect at the attempt at normality.

“Did you think I’d just let you both go without saying goodbye?” She smiled, sitting down primly across from them – “I can’t believe you’d think I could be so _rude!”_

“You’re coming back with us?” Katniss looked so hopeful.

“Oh –” Haymitch groaned, though it felt as though he was breathing again for the first time in days – “Joy.”

“Yes my dear girl, I am,” she smiled – “Honestly, I don’t know whose idea it was just to have _him_ to keep an eye on you. No no no, it seems they have no permanent use for me in the Capitol either and so….” she trailed off meaningfully. Katniss’s smile was a small, watery thing, but it was a smile nonetheless;

“I’m glad,” she said, and she was.

Not long after she excused herself with more than her usual tact and Haymitch raised an eyebrow –

“You? Live in District Twelve?” he drawled – “Really?”

“Well I’ll have to be back and forth a bit at first – but yes”.

“Huh. And where were you planning to live in District Twelve?”

 

Effie rolled her eyes;

“Haymitch I despair, really I –”

“Oh hush, sweetheart” – he smiled then- really smiled; his heart had unclenched further than he thought it could have, further than he ever could have imagined and though he could feel it shiver to be so open he knew there was no longer any going back. Somehow, Effie had moved herself to his side, leaned her head as casually on his shoulder as her wig allowed and slipped a little hand into his.

“We’ll work something out,” he smiled – “That house always did feel too big for just one.”

Each found the other warm and golden, trembling with soft buzzing content as the train sped on, while outside the window the world rushed by as it would. They could ignore it now.

__x__

**I’m sorry this took so long in coming, I kind of utterly lost the plot of this so I’ve just wrapped it up…actually I _do_ have a plot – well plan at any rate for the sequel, so there’s that still to come. Just be patient, I’ve got too many projects on the go right now. But domestic bliss at some point in the future is a certainty for these two. :-)**

**Also – my beta pointed out that they got taken back to 12 by hovercraft, but since I figure I’m already diverging epically from canon in having Effie go back with them I can diverge some more in this. :-)**


End file.
